


Residential Family Fuck-up

by ald0us



Category: Lord of War (2005)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3958414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ald0us/pseuds/ald0us
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation between the Orlov brothers about who is the “residential family fuck-up.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Residential Family Fuck-up

 

 

            “Why do you have to be so fucked up all the time?”

            It was a stupid question and they both knew it. Vitaly laughed him off. “Because I am.”

            “You’re my conscience, Vi,” Yuri said quietly.

            “Nah, I’m the residential family fuck-up,” Vitaly replied dismissively, then gained interest. “Actually, you’re right. I’m the fucking conscience, and you’re the fucking fuck-up.” He laughed hysterically, clutching at his stomach, hollowed by the drugs and smoking and god knew what else, then stopped abruptly to light up another cigarette. It flared briefly, then petered out. “I mean, I have everything! I’m a druggie, I’m broke, I can’t cook worth shit, and I’m fucking gorgeous!”

            “You’re right, you know.” Yuri said. “You might not have much, Vi, but you have more than me.”

            Vitaly looked between him and the sixty-seven-dollars-per-square-foot ceramics on Yuri’s kitchen floor. “You’re high, man.”

            “No, Vi, you are,” Yuri sighed.

            Vitaly began to laugh again, and Yuri found himself wishing very profoundly that he could switch places with his younger brother, his brother who had no bigger problems to his name other than a cocaine addiction and a very sorry love life. The love life he could fix, Yuri thought, if he just took a shower every once and a while—his brother wasn’t unattractive. Hell, the man could probably be a fucking rock star—and that would solve the cocaine problem, too.

            Vitaly’s problems were easy. Yuri’s, however, were far more complicated, violent, and egomaniacal. Case in point: Andre Baptiste Senior _and_ Junior, not to mention the fucking gun of Rambo.

            Vitaly was getting bored with him. “See ya, screw-up,” he tossed over his shoulder with a chuckle, and sauntered out the door.

            Yuri couldn’t tell whether he was joking.

 

 

            “God, what is that shit?” Yuri gagged, theatrically spitting out Vitaly’s _borscht_ into the kitchen’s sink. Vitaly glared half-heartedly at him and took another swig of vodka. His worn sneakers kicked idly at the kitchen's industrial cabinets, his ass parked glumly on the countertop.

            Vitaly wasn’t really a bad chef; in fact, if he were honest, Yuri would have to admit that it was pretty good—when he wasn’t setting things on fire. But he never told him that. In fact, he had always made a deliberate effort to insult his brother’s cooking.

            If he were honest, he’d know it was because he’d always been jealous. He still was.

            “I’ve got a job coming up,” he said. “In Africa. It shouldn’t take more—“

            “Don’t look at me,” Vitaly said. “I’m clean. I’m off drugs, I’m off smoking, I’m even a fucking vegetarian. I’m certainly off gun running. I’ve got a _girlfriend_ , Yuri. I’m thinking of opening my own place. I’m _not_ going to fucking Africa.”

            “I don’t have anyone I can trust anymore, Vi,” Yuri said. “I just need you there to have my back. It’s a real good job, it’ll give you plenty to get your life together—”

            Vitaly shook his head. “Sorry, Yuri,” he said. “I quit years ago. I’m not going back.”

            “Vi...” Yuri drew his trump card and played it unflinchingly. “Just one more time. _Brothers in arms._ ”

            _That_ got his attention. Puppy he was, the quickest way to bypass Vitaly’s brain—after drugs, money, alcohol, or sex—was to aim for his loyalty.

            It wasn’t exactly a hard target. And Yuri's aim was that of a practiced marksman.

            “Maybe.” Vitaly said.

            “Come on, Vi,” Yuri wheedled.

            Vitaly looked away from him quickly, staring hard at his rapidly depleting vodka bottle.

            “I need your help, Vi,” Yuri added. He was becoming impatient with his own begging and his brother’s stubbornness.

            Vitaly looked up at him, and for one split second it seemed to Yuri that his eyes cut right through him, seeing through his web of lies and self-deceit. It was like his younger brother was one of those gurus who sat on mountain-tops in India—too wise for his own fucking good. Yuri felt himself shift guiltily, covering the “Beware of Dog” sign Vitaly was so overly fond of with his back. His brother would probably never suspect that Yuri was the dog, not him.

            The moment passed as quickly as it came. “Okay,” Vitaly said with a heavy sigh. “Just one more time, Yuri.”

 

 

            _Just one more time, Yuri..._

            Fuck you.

            _I’ve got a girlfriend, Yuri. I’m thinking of opening my own place..._

            I said _fuck_ you, damn it.

            _I’m clean, Yuri. I’m off drugs, I’m off smoking. I’m certainly off gun running..._

_Fuck_ you, Vitaly—

            _You’re a good brother, Yuri._

“Damn you!” Yuri screamed, slamming his fists on the table.“ _Damn_ you!”

            He wasn’t talking to his brother. Nor was he talking to the Interpol agent—Jack Valentine had successfully engineered his final victory, albeit rather pyrrhic: Yuri Orlov was to be held in a spartan, claustrophobic interrogation room for every single second of his remaining twenty-two hours and fifteen minutes.

            Revenge. That was what this was. Vitaly was getting even with him from beyond the grave, in the form of one fucking bullet under his fucking fourth, rightmost rib.

            Except.

            Revenge wasn’t Vitaly’s style. It was Valentine’s. It was Yuri’s. Yuri, the residential family fuck-up. _Loyalty_   was Vitaly’s style. _Moral fiber_ was Vitaly’s style. Compassion. Self-fucking-sacrifice. Even some smattering of idealism. (Yuri had long supposed he had to have a few redeeming qualities to balance out his lattice-work of complexes and vice).

            Yuri Orlov was the reason his little brother, little Vitaly, was shot like the dog he was always terrified he’d become.

 

 

            Yuri laid down the engraver and held the bullet-casing up to the light, examining his workmanship. In a cramped, almost sloppy hand, it read,

_BEWARE OF DOG  
_

 

_Don’t make war with yourself._ Vitaly hadn’t, and it had gotten him killed. Yuri sure as fuck wasn’t going to, because it would keep him alive.

            Yuri slipped the casing into his pocket. Through his thin pocket lining, it was warm against his skin.


End file.
